Autocratic

Sifting and shifting, settling as dust, once the vision clears what is left? The answer eludes the blind eyes of those whose hearts are turned inwards.  Numb and shaking, afraid to feel, afraid to come forth and burst with emotions, what if the broken can no longer live as a shattered being?  Those who breathe do so trembling, holding on to the edges of ice beneath which they can only drown in cold darkness.  Has Her Majesty created such a seamless lie that the tapestry has been turned within and deceived even herself, the creator of its every stitch? But perhaps she is no Queen, only a beggar, yet even more.. perhaps she is a goddess, hidden away from the world, from herself.  But is this lie not told to you?  Do you not believe it, you self-serving humans who only wish to hear the lark sing if it sings of you?  The bird has a witty eye and knows which song you wish to hear, to please you, to appease you, to deceive you.  Before you notice the trick, you have become sated and are no longer capable of realizing there is more to see beyond the facade.
The painting never cared a wit of those who viewed it. Awed by her beauty, by the depth of meaning the artist seemed to portray, her stoic strokes and glossy smile appear so guileless... yet they are inert and cruel in the face of your sincerity. The crucible burns enough to open her eyes but within their cloudy depths no sense can be proffered. The silver tongue will prove to be poison in the mouth of the one who bears it. The painted swirls distract your eyes from the deeper meaning. Give homage to the Queen, she will only trample upon you regardless, yet in your reverence of her light you will never see.

She will take your scepter, but more than that, the succubus draws out your humanity - keeping it in a box for herself when the rain spurs her loneliness. The withered rose serves as a poor memory to the broken pocket watch collecting dust upon the shelf. Her occasional glance does naught to polish its tarnished surface.  Did she once care? Does she still? Are you meaningful to her only in what you provide or is there something deeper? Sitting in her fairytale land, alone and in the dark, do you oft think of her?  The Queen may appear arrogant, yet an apt title is deserving for one so skilled as she.  Her talents ring about her as a pond with endless ripples, yet the depths of which only she knows.
Her Majesty's commanding aura and haughty disposition hide well her flaws and the fears of the helpless child caught within the storm of the heart she has hidden away.  Decorum is the rule of necessity; Her Majesty's autocratic rule is more rash and merciless than would ever be revealed beyond the shimmering rainbows and fluttering butterflies, yet its harshness will ever cut the deepest within the protection of stony walls. The core which is numb may not feel the tear in the flesh as it bleeds, yet the injury damages still the same.

At times the most painful treasure is the one which teaches the most, yet all that is left are rusted corners and the emptiness which is all there has ever been.  In desperation to fill that which can only be a void, the insanity creeps in and causes that which she wishes most to never find.  Control only causes the edges to fray, and then what is left to the Queen?